


i miss the conversation

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: ? - Freeform, Alexander Hamilton Does Not Say A Word, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, In a way? He’s just bitter at mainstream media and their straightass hair, Internalised Racism, Just some quiet musing, M/M, Racism, an achievement i’m sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-30 02:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: There’s a hand on his back.(Mild introspection of the expectations regarding mainstream media romance)





	i miss the conversation

**Author's Note:**

> Maps - Maroon 5

There’s a hand on his back.

John eases from sleep carefully, hardly aware he’s doing it. Senses bleed in slow, and he notes the warmth of the sun filtering through open blinds, the woven fabric of a duvet bunching around his waist, the scent of coffee— he can hear it bubbling, actually, hear the insistent tapping of potential against the glass that contains it. 

And it’s moving, the hand. Winding motions, circular and consistent. He knows it’s a hand because of the slight brushing of nails against his skin, a pleasant tingle that draws a slow sigh from his chest. He turns his face so that he’s resting on the other cheek and furrows his brow slightly as he tries to cling tighter to the succulent ignorance that always comes with sleep.

This is nice, though. He doesn’t want to move from this moment, this quiet, a moment of reprieve from the world.

The hand has to ruin it, of course. It travels up, past his ribs, rests musingly over his scapula before coming dangerously invested at the nape of his neck and rising. Naturally, he begins to shy away, a wordless protest drifting from his lips.

He’s seen movies. He’s seen movies, and he’s not Caucasian enough for that shit.

You can’t run your fingers through John’s hair. It doesn’t work. The curls catch and tangle and snap and it’s not fun at all for him. 

But the owner of the hand shushes him, as though he were a disgruntled animal or child that needed reassurance in guidance. 

What occurs is the opposite of what he expects— not that terrible pushing through of knots that had likely formed easy in sleep and would not be quite as ready to free themselves until he’d taken his shower, applied as much conditioner as he could. What occurs is the gentle massage of the scalp by the careful finger-pads of that hand. And while it did move around, there was no dragging across, no mixing where there need be none.

It worked well to counter the stress headache that had just now become swirling, half-formed, within his mind. John sighs, leans into the touch.

What had he been worried about?


End file.
